


and the strict master Death bids them dance

by ballantine



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Carnival, Episode Related, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23289133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: Captain Crozier and Jopson join the carnival and find a crew lost in time to eternal revelry.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 20
Kudos: 65
Collections: the terror decameron





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shaggy little story, probably could be at least 5K longer -- but who these days has the concentration for that...
> 
> Written for the Terror Decameron Day #3 prompt: misadventure
> 
> Title from a line in the The Seventh Seal.

_Journey to the Veil_

Jopson has known his captain many years by now, and knows to be concerned when he falls silent. Francis Crozier is the type to suffer well, but not quietly. It is when he starts to hold his own counsel that Jopson fears that black devil melancholy will take him, and take him for good.

Francis had seemed in reasonably good spirits as Jopson helped him into his slops, but as they emerge from the ship's jealous warmth and set off across the frozen wastes he says nothing. Francis moves like a man thirty years advanced in age.

Jopson decides to let him be and focus on watching to make sure the captain does not lose his footing. From day to day or even hour by hour, the landscape changes its shape; even now the long cattle trail made by the crew that had gone before is starting to be erased by the wind.

After ten minutes of slow walking, Francis abruptly twists around and bestows upon him a rueful smile. “Not so spry, I hear you thinking to yourself. But I'm just warming up, Thomas.”

It is like the sun has rejoined them eight hours early. His answering smile splits the skin at the corners of his mouth. And so his smile pains him more way than one.

“I never doubted it, sir,” he says.

Jopson reminds himself then: he has never known his captain as a sober man.

* * *

They look down upon the carnival as Francis catches his breath. It is a small fortress of tents, festooned with lanterns and lit up against the dark icescape like the last outpost of civilization. It is a remarkable sight, given it was built in only a week. But Jopson's eyes are relentlessly drawn away, and up.

“The aurora,” he whispers.

Francis studies it, expression unreadable. “Irregular,” he pronounces after a moment.

Jopson would never dispute the word of his captain, but irregular is not the word he would use. Unnatural, more like. Disquieting.

The swirling dance of colour does not appear random, as on most nights. The streams of flickering light run together and turn as if in a funnel, and the optical illusion of distance make it appear like the maelstrom is centered right above the carnival tents. The colours seep and bleed, calling to mind for heartbreaking seconds at a time the blue of a summer sky; the green of new spring growth; the yellow of a blossom. Colours and sights that will never exist in this place, memories he realizes he's forgotten the sense of; the longer Jopson looks at it, he feels longing and a terrible sort of grief creep up his throat.

Francis tears his eyes away and looks down at the path before them on the snow. “Well, we're close. No use stopping now,” he says gruffly.

Only his concern for the captain could make Jopson look away from the dreadful sight of the northern lights. He puts his head down and hurries after him.

They approach the aurora's nadir and duck under the first awning. A table has been set to the side for lanterns. They set theirs next to the others. Jopson feels a shiver of premonition, a senseless anxiety that leaving the lights behind is a terrible mistake.

Francis's head tips back as he studies the entryway before them. Jopson follows his gaze. The doorway is decorated liberally with paper flowers. In the dim lighting, they look almost like they could be real. Real and long dead.

“...That's nice,” says Francis, and Jopson would never dispute the word of his captain, so he says nothing.

He reaches forward and lifts the heavy drape of canvas. They pass into a labyrinth.

_The Wooded Glade_

It is warm inside, the kind of warmth that only comes with living bodies and movement and the earth itself. Jopson sees the transition overwhelm Francis and raises his hands unseen to catch him in case he stumbles. The captain recovers himself after only a second. They continue.

The walls tower over them, seven feet tall at least, and might feel entrapping if not for the light and music that sings from ahead, coaxing them further in.

“How did they manage this?” muses Francis.

With every step they take, the walls look less and less like woven barricades slapped together from the spare bowels of the ships and more like the rough bark of trees. The paper flowers adorning the walls are in abundance, crawling over the sides of the labyrinth and archways almost like they'd grown from real vines. The quality of the light changes, lightens: dawn on a forested hillock.

They see the men have painted the interior of the tent's canvas, giving a warm and delirious impression of a sunny day back home. Jopson finds if he looks too long at it, the slight movement in the tent plays tricks on his eyes, telling them the painted patches meant to mimic clouds actually drift and scatter like the real thing. He lowers his face at once, blinking rapidly and thinking: I haven't had anything to drink.

The passageway continues to turn and twist. Jopson feels they surely should have come out the other end of the tents by now, and wishes he'd counted his paces from the beginning.

Sweat shines on Francis's forehead.

The walls at last beginning to shrink and taper, and presently they come to another drape of canvas. Through its edges shines a warm, orange light. On either side of the entry, like sentinels, sit large woven swans.

Jopson is suddenly seized by a powerful foreboding. “Perhaps,” he says, and Francis turns his head, listening, “perhaps we should return to the ship, sir.”

“I want to see the rest,” says his captain.

To the right of the doorway, one of the swans turns its eyeless head and seems to stare directly down at them. Jopson shuts his eyes. Perhaps he is falling ill? A fine time for it to happen.

As he is regaining a hold on his wits, Francis side-steps him and reaches forward to the fall of canvas. He lifts it and they step through and at last find the crew.

Or – he assumes it is the crew, for who else could these creatures be? But the crowd is dressed in strange garb: glittering fine coats and top hats and ruffs and cloaks. Some men are in dresses and affect a coquettish and very convincing sashay as they cross the room. All are in masks, hard porcelain curves with dark, fathomless eye sockets.

Merry laughter and shouts dominate the room and above it all, accompanied by a fiddle and quite drunk, sings an angel.

The crowd parts and there, in a rich, verdant clearing beneath a canopy of leafy branches stands Lt Irving. He stretches his arms out to the room like he would gladly embrace them all. He is wearing a long flowing skirt and bursting from his back are a pair of brilliant white wings.

“A bit on the nose, isn't he?” says Francis. “And are those lemon trees?”

At the sound of the captain's distinctive voice, a nearby reveler cocks his head and slowly turns to face them. He tilts his mask up – Jopson gives a start, and realizes at once that part of him hadn't expected anything to lay beneath the mask. Foolishness.

It is Des Voeux. He stares dumbly at Francis, eyebrows furrowed, and says, “You look just like our old captain.”

Francis must still be in a tolerant mood – truly, sobriety is the strangest of drugs – for he only arches his eyebrows at the mate and turns away.

Jopson dares say, “That joke was in poor taste, Mr Des Voeux,” and hastens after his captain.

_The Grand Races_

Francis has located Thomas Blanky, who is wearing a laurel wreath made of tender leaves. He is also, Jopson observes, drinking from his false boot.

“Francis? You are back with us?” says the ice master.

He appears much the worse for liquor, though of course his wavering stance could as easily be attributed to his missing leg. But there is something blurred about his expression that causes Jopson to tense. Francis does a creditable job of appearing unaffected as he embraces his old friend.

When they draw apart, Jopson sees Blanky has wet eyes. His misgivings grow; Thomas Blanky had barely squeezed out a tear after he lost his leg.

“Wherever did you get these?” Francis asks, smiling and flicking the greenery at Blanky's temple.

Blanky gestures vaguely with his boot. “I bested three men in the races. You should've seen it, Francis. Even with my leg, they could not beat me.”

“I should've liked to. You've always been nimble in the rigging. Where were these races held?”

A strange light came into Blanky's eyes, and he straightened with a violent lurch. “Yes! You must go. Britannia shall have a need. It has been so long – your second waits for you.”

Francis hesitates, looking hard at his old friend.

“Captain,” begins Jopson, unnerved.

Francis turns to him and finally, he appears at least quizzical. He says in an undertone, “Were they always this strange?”

You know they were not, Jopson thinks. He opens his mouth to entreat his captain once more to withdraw. He wants nothing more than to go back the way they'd come, retrieve their lanterns, and return to _Terror_ , where Jopson could tuck the captain up with blankets and make tea. Even the unsettling quiet of the ship is preferable to the din of music and chatter that surrounds them now.

“I fear something is wrong here,” says Jopson.

His cautious words backfire spectacularly, as Francis sets his jaw and nods. “So let's get to the bottom of it, hm?”

And his captain sets off again.

The moment he turns away, Blanky subsides, his eyes clouding over. After a moment he lifts his boot and takes another drink.

Jopson hurries after Francis, who is walking with a surer stride now. He has been gaining strength from the moment they entered the carnival, he realizes. He wants to feel glad for it – he knows his captain is strong, he has seen examples of it countless times – but next to the strange reverie of the carnival it only feels like one more unnatural aspect.

The captain heaves up the next canvas flap and they enter an arena.

The next room of the carnival is cooler in tones – the snow underfoot gives off a blueish light, and the canvas walls are done up like cave paintings – thick, rounded humanoid figures riding out on four-legged creatures. And now Jopson knows it cannot be any trick of the eye or movement in the tent that makes the paintings move. Nothing like that could set the rides' legs moving, nor the humanoid figure bouncing like a jockey.

Across the room, a horn sounds – a race is off, two figures astride men with horse-heads that wicker and breath long trains of steam into the air. The men gathered around all cheer, their faces lit up with ecstasy.

No rank, no sign of any service decorum is present. Francis takes in the boisterous crowd, his brow pinching, mouth turning down. The contestants race cross the room and all faces turn in unison to watch, including his. But Jopson watches _him_ , sees the moment displeasure turns to shock and finally looks away to surveil the threat.

Captain Fitzjames is radiant atop his steed (Jopson peers but cannot decipher man from horse). His profile, somehow rendered newly _androgynous and beautiful, is fit to_ be cut for a new gold coin. His hair and robe flow, his armor gleams. Never was there a more noble figure cut atop a monstrously drunk half-horse.

He is the picture of supreme valor – until Francis steps up to the side of the race course, at which point his eyes widen and his pink mouth sags dumbly open.

It is only a second before the mask of serenity comes back up, but a second is enough. Francis is shocked enough by the appearance and behavior of his second to step back and withdraw from the races altogether.

Badly uncertain, Jopson follows him but glances back over his shoulder, to where Fitzjames is surrounded by a worshipful crew.

Britannia looks after them, unreadable.

_The Eternal Feast_

“What the devil is happening?” snaps Francis as they step through to a new tent. This one is suffused with a gentle yellow light, but unlike the previous tents it at least seems of natural provenance: candles line the tent in sconces and in holders atop the table. A table which is longer than any Jopson remembers from the ships and laden with an unlikely feast.

He stares and does not make a reply to his captain.

Succulent spitted pigs and large tender shoulders of beef. Golden roasted potatoes and fragrant parsnips. Crackling buttery pastries and thick, rich soups. In the air: rosemary and parsley and is that a peppered rub?

The captain, who has not had any appetite since he quit liquor, barely seems to notice the array of food. But Jopson drifts closer to the table, all his senses overcome with the sight and scent before him. That they are impossible no longer matters, not after years of salted beef and tinned biscuits....

Scarcely have his fingers felt the lovely soft give of a freshly baked roll than it is knocked from his hand.

He looks up at his assailant; it is Lt. Little, sober and not costumed. The sight of him is shocking.

“I don't believe you want to eat that,” says the lieutenant.

“You are mistaken,” begins Jopson tartly, but when he looks for the fallen roll, he finds only a small nugget on the ground, hard and furred over with green mould. He steps back and looks again at the table, confused. It still appears the most tempting and savory of feasts, and those crew seated at it continue to gorge themselves happily. But some sourness in the air now makes his stomach turn.

“Edward,” says Francis behind him. “Thank goodness. You, at least, look yourself.”

Little straightens under his captain's regard and looks relieved. “I'm glad to see you, sir. Though I fear it's not better for you to be here. This is cursed place.”

“We noticed. Why on earth did no one inform me of what was going on here?”

Little, to his credit, does not even allow a pause in which the captain might be reminded of his condition this past fortnight. He says, “I tried leaving, sir. Soon as things turned queer. But I haven't – I haven't been able to find a way out.”

Despite the warmth of the tent, Jopson felt the cold return to his bones.

“Nonsense,” says Francis, but not like he doubted Little, who was looking at the captain with an almost hungry relief.

Jopson thinks, distantly, that it is good to see the captain remember this side of himself. He is standing taller already.

Little says, “I don't know how to explain it. We entered the tents. I refrained from drinking as I'd promised Captain Fitzjames to keep a sober eye out for mischief while the men took their fun. The strangeness came on slow.” Little looks around the tent, down the line of faces fixated upon their plates. He adds softly, “By inches, like ice.”

“Hail!” cries an inebriated Reid, appearing abruptly at the captain's side. He is carrying a large goblet of spirits – a fine whiskey, Jopson recognizes the smell from two feet away – and tries to offer it to Francis.

The captain's nostrils flare. His face loses all colour.

“Mr. Reid,” says Little sharply. He places a hand on Erebus's ice master and shoves hard. Reid falls back through the canvas.

“I appreciate your efforts, Edward, but I was not going to accept that drink,” says Francis, with a passable attempt at good humour.

Little's cheeks redden. “Apologies, sir, but something seems to happen to the men when they consume food and drink here. They... slip away.” He shifts on his feet. “I didn't want to take the chance he'd – spill on you.”

He sounds absurd, but Jopson feels gratitude well up nevertheless. A fine, loyal officer, is Edward Little.

“Sir, if I may ask – is this a rescue? How long have we been lost?” asks Little.

“How _long_ – ?” the captain does a double take and stares. “How long do you think it's been, Lieutenant?”

“I couldn't say.” Despair peers in through the cracks of Little's composure. “Lt. Irving talks to me like I am someone he knew in a past life. And Captain Fitzjames, he – ” but Little pales and cuts himself off. He even takes a step backwards. Jopson and Francis turn around.

Fitzjames stands between the two tents, chin imperiously lifted. Beneath the lifted canvas behind him, it appears to be snowing inside the race track. The falling flakes give off more of that unsettling blue light, and the men cavort in it like children. An unseen wind lifts his cape and locks of hair.

“Oh, this is the absolute _limit_ ,” says Francis.


	2. Chapter 2

Never let it be forgotten this parcel of tender lives stand even now on the sea – a frozen sea, but still the sea. And everything that rides the sea falls under Britannia's dominion.

What Britannia can touch, Britannia controls. When Britannia sees her subjects fasting, it is for her to decide they should feast instead. Their cups will never run empty. She will lift up their hearts and in gratitude they shall cry out with one voice, _Rule Britannia!_ And glory will be her nourishment, her necessary vitamins. Lemons to all and scurvy for none.

She will hold back the sun itself to protect her subjects, for if the night never dies than neither shall they. Lemons to all and scurvy for none!

But now: a piece of grit in her eye as she stands before the Eternal Feast. She blinks and the carnival swims before her, the canvas fluttering in at the sides. Britannia sways, and two strong hands come up to clutch her shoulders.

A familiar brogue reaches her ears. It sounds like an age-old nuisance. (It sounds Irish.)

“Lemons to all and scurvy for none,” she mumbles.

“He has completely lost his mind. Has anyone seen him like this?” demands that old-new voice. Even as it irritates, Britannia feels drawn to it. She squeezes her eyes shut as the room spins again.

If only she could shut her ears as well.

One of the more drab of her subjects, Lt. Little, replies, “Everyone has, sir. But they're all too far gone themselves to notice. The only ones unaffected are myself and Mr. Goodsir.”

The hands tighten on her shoulders, and she gives in – slumps forward so her forehead is pressed against the nuisance's chest. He smells faintly of shaving cream and stale sweat.

“Edward, Thomas, would you please find Mr. Goodsir and bring him here. I will try to talk Captain Fitzjames around, and then we shall have a command meeting about what to do with this situation we've found ourselves in.”

“Sir,” came the muted replies.

And then they were alone.

The nuisance does nothing about the head resting against his chest; indeed, he adjusts his grip so his arms are folding Britannia in a loose embrace. Her helmet is gently removed and then she feels a chin rest, lightly, atop her bowed head.

“James? Will you come back to me now?”

Britannia shivers. James opens his eyes.

* * *

“I suppose,” allows Fitzjames, mortification keeping his voice low, “I suppose it all got a little out of hand.”

He is no longer sitting within Captain Crozier's embrace, but standing stiffly in front of him like a midshipman being reprimanded for the first time. His face is hot. It may never cool down again. The power of his flush shall melt a path to the Passage.

“I don't understand,” says Francis, rubbing his face tiredly. “What _happened_?”

Even so obviously still recovering from his new abstinence, he looks better than he has in ages. James wishes he wouldn't notice such things. It is an old wish.

Around them, the sickening feast continues. Grease shines on lips and chins; crumbs spit out across the table. He looks at the men eating and remembers feeling thrill of pride and joy at the sight, but now only feels dread.

“I thought,” he begins to say. He stops and starts again, voice stronger, “I wanted to give the men something to hold on to. So they'd be ready. But when we arrived here and I saw the cheer on their faces – the thought of what lies ahead... I couldn't let them go. And the longer the night went on, the more it felt like I shouldn't have to.”

Francis is impatient. “That's – all well and good, a captain should know his own mind. But what of the _magic_?”

“Oh – I have no idea.” James purses his lips and shakes his head, looking around to where the comatose Heather, dressed like the king, is slowly waltzing in place with his comrade Tozer. “No, haven't the faintest.”

Francis sighs. Then he pauses and checks with James. “Ready, you said. Ready for what?”

James smiles down at him, a little bleakly. “To walk out of here.”

* * *

“My, they've been gone a long time, haven't they?” asks Francis.

They are sitting side-by-side, backs turned to the feast. With the crew around them thoroughly absorbed in the carnival's illusions, it almost feels like they are alone in one of the ship cabins. Who doesn't like one's privacy accompanied by a score of wet mastication, thinks James.

Aloud, he says, “Splitting up is risky. Time works strange here. It feels like it's been hours for us, but to Jopson and Little, they might have only left minutes ago.”

“Hours? It feels like it's been days since I left _Terror_.”

James hesitates. “If I may ask, how are you feeling, Francis?”

“Oh, just fine,” he says. He turns and bestows upon James a faint, wry smile. “And yourself? Do you feel any strange costs from your delusion?”

Mortification. A sense of inappropriate ownership of the crew. A deep longing to be within your arms again.

“I feel like myself again,” he says.

The opposite end of the tent lifts, and a flaming pyre of a man strolls inside. The heat of the flames is felt from across the tent.

Ah. James forgot Doctor Stanley.

“Jesus Christ,” cries Francis, leaping to his feet.

“Captain – ”

Francis looks around wildly, as if for a bowl or jug of water, but no carnival of James's has such practical or mundane provisions. “Stop him! Stop him before – ”

James puts a hand up and dares tug at his captain's arm.

“Francis, really, there's nothing to be alarmed about,” says James. Francis jerks around to stare down at him incredulously, and he guides his gaze with a finger. “Look, see? The flames do not catch. It is quite safe. For now.”

Francis allows himself to be drawn back down to the bench. James leaves his hand on his arm after, because he has always been quick to grasp for that which he doesn't deserve.

“How long has he been like that?” Francis demands, sounding thoroughly shaken.

“I'm not sure.” James swabs his sweating forehead with the back of his free hand. “He lit himself on fire a few weeks into the carnival, and he just... never went out. Occasionally he dances in the glade – it's quite the show. Very popular with the revelers there.”

Doctor Stanley passes them, nodding formally to James. The flames bob with the motion. Heat builds intolerably and then dissipates abruptly as the doctor departs again for the race track tent. James turns to Francis, as if to exclaim: _see, no harm done_.

But he looks defeated. For a moment, flickering – almost like James's delusion has returned – he also looks very old.

Throat tight, James dares pat his arm – a risk, calling attention to it, but he feels helpless not to comfort the man. His heart swells when Francis absently covered his hand with his own.

“Jopson and Lt. Little will find us again,” says Francis, rallying after a low moment. “And together with Mr. Goodsir we will find a way out of this. Who knows – with you broken from the dream, perhaps the whole thing will gradually cease to be.”

James feels a ligament in his jaw click as he smiles at him. He says, “And then the sun will rise.”

Francis's eyes, which were so sharp even in the deepest depths of his wallowing in the bottle, are clear like fair weather when they land on James.

James hasn't talked to him in years, feels like. And even as he tries to pull his sticky, stubborn thoughts away from the delusion of the carnival, he rationally knows it has still been weeks since they've seen each other; Jopson is assiduous and downright bloody-minded in his loyalty.

So this exchange of glances, these smiles they share – senselessly, comically – with a mindless infernal gorge their backs: it feels like they are meeting one another anew. Their tarnished and bruised history scrubbed from existence, because they exist in a place that has no history. No history, and perhaps no future –

Except no doubt lingers in Francis's tone as he says, firmly, “The sun will rise, James.”

And James resolves to keep holding his hand until the earth dares prove them wrong.


End file.
